You'd expect an exhibit inspired by the idea of apocalypse to be pretty dark — you know, the end of the world and all that jazz. Turns out artist Jeremichael Bonds had something a little lighter in mind when he hatched the idea of an artistic salute to the digits of doom (6/6/6 or June 6, 2006). Namely, that the date offered one hell of an excuse to party like it's 1999.
"I realized [the date] will never happen again in my lifetime," the 23-year-old said. "It's almost romantic, the idea of reaching the end and getting to see if it's what you thought it would be."
Romantic, ironic, whimsical, horrific: The artists Bonds corralled for the exhibit — with the help of some friends — have given shape to all kinds of visions of the end of the world. If you're looking for a downer, i.e., realism, check out Al Gore's enviro-flick, not this affair; the creativity of artistic response to an age-old topic provides the main revelation on tap. If life imitates art, the Para Gallery exhibit suggests that humanity's final moments on Earth could turn out to be fairly entertaining, even "Apocalysious!" as one of Maureen Hudas' happy-housewife paintings suggests.
And, yes, there is a party. If you missed the June 6 opening reception, relive the pre-apocalyptic abandon — or at least snack on delicious cheese cubes as a video of falling bombs loops in the background — at the closing reception on June 30. After all, contemplating the end of the world, much like drinking, is not really something you want to do alone.
The exhibit inaugurates a, ahem, resurrection for the gallery. The space, in an historical building across from Cuscaden Park north of Ybor, existed as Kama Gallery until earlier this year. When the previous owner left town, Joe Griffith and his partner, Kym O'Donnell, moved into the building and made plans to reopen as Para.
Griffith, the founder of Experimental Skeleton, the Tampa-based artist collaborative in charge of programming for the city-sponsored gallery Flight 19, will continue to be active on both fronts. Para, he said, presents an opportunity to showcase edgier work that might be inappropriate for a city space. (In the meantime, positive changes are brewing at Flight 19, Griffith said. Recent discussions with representatives of the Tampa Museum of Art and USF, a past partner, focused on possible programming collaborations in the future.)
In many of the works on display, the idea of apocalypse merges with a laundry list of modern civilization's ills: ineffectual government, excessive consumerism, inane mass media culture. At the lighthearted end of the spectrum, Sesh Cole's standard-issue metal box purports to be a handy kit containing "all you need for the end." An accompanying letter on faux-White House letterhead helpfully suggests remaining calm.
Cole, whose pieces easily number among the most interesting here, also offers up a painted palm frond as an uncanny gas mask replica and a painting of ghoulish utensils (spoon, knife, fork) crafted from vertebrae. The latter, together with Maureen Hudas' "Famine-tastic!" painting that juxtaposes culinary grotesqueries à la Betty Crocker with an image of a starving family, suggest a mordant twist on the idea of a Last Supper.
Spank Hudas sends a chill down the spine with his self-medication machine for apocalyptic survivors. The pseudo-science experiment set-up includes a wheelchair surrounded by flasks and a turning wheel of glass tubes for dispensing, presumably, some form of chemical relief. Two small, antiquated television sets and a record player provide entertainment within arm's reach, until a knife or machine gun provides final therapy.
The almighty dollar comes in for some tough love. Two artists, Allen Hampton and Wesly Demarco, borrow its iconography as a general symbol of greed. Plus, it's got that creepy eye pyramid on it!
Woe betide he who crosses a Teletubby. A carved and stained wood panel by Chris Deacon shows Tinky Winky — whose ambiguous gender identification, ergo sexual orientation, briefly inflamed the religious right in the 1990s — skipping merrily through hellfire, controversial red handbag clutched firmly in hand. An unmistakable gleam of final reckoning twinkles in the purple fuzz-ball's eyes: Look out, Jerry Falwell, it's payback time.
In Sarah Shipey's unconventional candle-sculptures, miniature soldier figurines battle it out in tiny theaters of war. Using the bottom half of an empty CD jewel case as a vessel, Shipey pours a thin layer of wax as a ground for the standing soldiers. Fixed in place, the combative toys appear frozen between shots. Complete with a long wick that towers above the soldiers, each piece actually functions as a candle. Some include embedded LED lights that flash randomly like exploding bombs.
Though much of the work on display exudes a raw, untrained feel, it also demonstrates substantial creativity. Perhaps no artist serves as a better example of this than Bonds, who masterminded the whole to-do. Technically, an area of his work on one side of the gallery constitutes a separate show, titled Sincere, but it blends so seamlessly with the other works — and deals with some of the same themes — that I hardly noticed a transition.
Bonds' paintings depict a wide variety of subjects, from the literally biblical to the faintly psychedelic, in a diversity of media, including one image made of painted bird feathers. Sculptures include latex casts of the artist's face — one for each of the seven deadly sins — mounted on plaques, an ornate carved wood piece with a skull-like pattern at its center, and rattraps painted to look like voracious bunny rabbits. Like the rest of the artists, Bonds doesn't hold back. It's over the top in an exhilarating sort of way, and why not? After all, you never know when the end might be near.
This article appears in Jun 21-27, 2006.
